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Tonsillectomy

In the attic—
sleeping on a blanket and spitting
in a banana bowl,
on one wall a poster of a muscled
corvette,
the other a beach beauty
in a neon bikini,
I was so jealous
of all the other tonsilless,
cherry-stained kids—how they bragged
about popsicles and
Jell-O.
We were new to Mississippi.
We'd moved that summer.
We'd moved even though my mother swore
we wouldn't.
And what a sight—
the attic of my stepfather's
home,
unfinished and sweltering,
such a disappointing recovery room.
Just me and a kid-friendly pamphlet
taken from the hospital,
each page a cartooned uvula
attempting to swing.
Until finally, up came my mother
and her new husband,
him looking at me awkwardly,
pudding dripping down his chin.